Lahat ng Kabanata ng Twisted Ecstasy : Kabanata 61 - Kabanata 70

As I step into the private jet, the door seals behind me with a soft hydraulic sigh. Evander Crowe sits in the wide leather seat nearest the aisle, already half-turned toward me, icy eyes tracking the steps I take down the short cabin. He is thirty-seven, tall even when seated, black hair pushed back like he just ran a hand through it, jaw so sharp it could cut. He's my new boss and also the only passenger on this four-hour flight to the coast.“Sit,” he says. Not a request.I take the seat across from him. The jet begins its slow taxi. My pulse is already too loud in my ears. I have worked for him for exactly eleven days. Eleven days of clipped emails, late-night calls, and the way his gaze sometimes lingers when I hand him a file. Today feels different. Charged. I cross my legs and smooth my skirt even though nothing is wrinkled. The leather under me is cool and expensive. Outside the small window, the tarmac slides past in a blur of white lines and distant hangars. I can feel him w

Driving up from the bottom, I feel the barbell bite into the muscle across my upper back. My quads burn as if liquid fire is threading through the muscle fibers, yet I keep pushing. Across the open floor, Troy Sterling finishes loading his own bar and turns. Our eyes lock the way they always do. Cold recognition. Mutual irritation. Today, something hotter simmers beneath the usual dislike.I refuse to look away as I grind through the last reps. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades and slides down the hollow of my spine. His gaze follows it until the droplet disappears under the waistband of my shorts. The corner of his jaw flexes.I rerack the bar with a clang and move aside, deliberately staying within his peripheral vision. He adds another plate.Show-off.One shoulder rests against the upright as I tip my water bottle. A thin stream slips over my lower lip and trails down my chin before I catch it with the tip of my tongue. His gaze turns darker. The iron plate in his hand strike

Pushing through the doors, I find the gym almost empty. Only the low hum of the vents and the distant clank of one last plate being re-racked break the silence. Troy stands near the back racks, already watching the entrance like he has been waiting for me all day. Our eyes meet, and the air between us snaps tight.I head straight to him. No warm-up. No small talk. He catches my wrist and drags me behind the tallest row of equipment, where the light barely reaches. My back hits the wall. His mouth claims mine with enough force to bruise. I kiss him back just as roughly. Our teeth click. His hands yank my shorts down my thighs, and I kick them free. He shoves his own down.Lifting my right leg high on his hip, he drives into me in a thick thrust that forces a broken gasp.“Holy shit, you are already so ready for me,” he says against my mouth.“I told you I would come ready,” I answer, my voice shaky.He starts fucking me against the wall with short strokes that make the equipment rattle

I return three nights later because the money is already gone, and the memory of his mouth still clings to my skin. The same black-glass building stands beneath the night sky, but tonight the suite smells of warm amber with something sharper underneath, like crushed herbs. Mr. V is standing when the doors open. The mask conceals the same half of his face. Tonight, he wears a dark shirt open at the neck. His voice is quieter than before. “You read the new script.” “Yes, I did.” “Say the first line.” I gulp. The words feel too familiar on my tongue. “I came back because I could not stay away from the way you look at me.” He nods. “She used to say it exactly like that. Soft at the end.” My stomach tightens. I have said those words before, years ago, to someone else in a different bed. I never wrote them down. I never posted them. Yet here they are, typed neatly on the page he sent. He points toward a low platform in the center of the room. A thick padded surface covered in

I stand frozen in the green silk after the recording ends. The dead woman’s voice seems to linger in the air. My hands are cold. The bracelet on my wrist suddenly feels like a shackle.Turning, I face him.“Explain,” I say, my tone rough. “All of it. Now.”Mr. V makes no attempt to come closer or soften his expression.“Sit.”“No. Talk.”For a moment, he only studies me. Then he exhales.“She chose you four years before she died,” he begins, his tone flat, almost weary. “She saw you in a small theater production. Then again in an independent film. She had me collect every public image, interview clip, and available photograph. She studied the shape of your mouth, the way you carried your shoulders, the cadence of your laugh. When the resemblance was close enough, she ordered a deeper file.”I remain on my feet. The silk whispers over my thighs when I shift.“She wanted private architecture,” he continues. “Not just the face. She paid for university records, old medical notes, and dele